


Leave Me Here Long Enough to Realize

by lizook12



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:23:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizook12/pseuds/lizook12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their heads are bent together and they look for all the world like they’re sharing some important secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave Me Here Long Enough to Realize

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure where this one originated. I think it was a tumblr post about imagining your OTP in certain scenarios, but, in any case, I love these outsider perspectives every now and then so I hope you enjoy :) 
> 
> Title found in Nickel Creek's _Where Is Love Now_.

Shaking my head, I slip my phone into the outer pocket of my purse, juggle the three things I was supposed to be picking up for dinner before heading home after work. Suddenly it’s turned into twelve and I wish I’d taken a cart or, at the very least, a basket.

Instead, I look like I’m playing a game of Jenga with fresh produce and, really, my husband now expects me to somehow add two boxes of tissues to the pile?

I blow out a breath, tighten my grip on an escaping pear, and turn into the grains aisle to grab a box of elbows. I’m just tucking them under my arm, starting to head down the other half of the aisle, when I see them.

Her arm is around his waist as his curls over her shoulders, his thumb rubbing gently across her neck. Their heads are bent together and they look for all the world like they’re sharing some important secret instead of standing in the middle of a crowded market.

The pear starts to slip again and I hastily move it to the top of the pile, eyes still focused on the couple.

He looks familiar, attention focused, strong shoulders evident even in a business suit, but I can’t quite place him.

Not that it matters.

I’m wasting time and killing my back for no apparent reason.

And yet...

There’s something that makes me want to linger.

It’s in the synchronized rise and fall of their shoulders, the soft touch he presses to her elbow as she bites her lip and raises the shopping list clutched between her brightly painted nails.

“...and we need to get some parmesan, too. Ethan finished it the last time he and Digg came for dinner.”  Her voice floats down the aisle and I scoot back against the rice display in case they start walking my way.

It turns out there’s no need though because they stay where they are, rooted in front of shelves and shelves of pasta sauce.

Her partner—

(They look to be much more than boyfriend/girlfriend, but I can’t make out either of their left hands...

Still, it doesn’t make a difference. Not with the way his body turns into hers, eyes focus on her lips, that piece of hair stuck in the arm of her glasses that he carefully pulls free.)

He laughs at that and, I swear, his whole damn face lights up.

“Oh, and I wanted a couple oranges.” She smooths the hair he’s just freed, bumps her hip against his. “Can you run back and get them?”

“If we ever make a decision about the sauce, I will.”

Laughing, she tips her chin up, waves the list at him. “I already told you, the tomato basil.”

“Are you sure marinara wouldn’t—”

“Yes, and roasted garlic will completely overpower the gnocchi.”

“What about vodka?”

Her chin tips up another inch, elbow jabbing his side as the argument continues on.

It’s comfortable though.

Easy.

Their rhythm practiced and warm.

I can tell he knows he’s fighting a losing battle and yet he’s grinning about it, dimples appearing as he presses forward with his latest cause (Arrabbiata), cups her shoulder lightly.

The smile she suppresses in response lights her eyes, flushes her cheeks as he kicks their cart forward and sweeps about five jars of tomato basil into the basket.

“Ok, but...” His head bows, hand smoothing up her throat, pressing to the nape of her neck as his lips cover hers for a long moment. “I get to pick the garlic bread.”

“Always.”

I barely hear it, but it’s there—a promise, an affirmation—as she hands him the list, their fingers lacing together as they start back down the aisle. They fall into step easily, joined hands swinging between them as she guides the cart around the corner and I can’t help but grin.

Resting against the nearest shelf, I dig out my phone and send a message back to my husband; dinner and wine while watching his hockey game sounds fun.


End file.
